


As A Moth To The Flame

by bucketsimp



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Inexperienced Reader, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Reader Insert, Very mild dom/sub undertones, javi is a tiny bit possessive, some gendered language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketsimp/pseuds/bucketsimp
Summary: You certainly felt a certain way about your very handsome colleague, but you pushed those thoughts away when he was around -- your little schoolgirl crush was not just silly, but unprofessional too. As the child of an important diplomat, proper conduct was not just expected, it was required.
Relationships: Javier Peña/F!Reader, Javier Peña/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	As A Moth To The Flame

**Author's Note:**

> all i know is that i somehow wrote this during the past 10 days because Javier Peña is a snack

“That’s the place over there.” You point at a skinny brick building in the middle of the street. The ground floor clearly used to be a store front, its originally red awning faded to a pale rusty color by the sun. All windows except for two are barred with planks of wood, and you can see why -- a multitude of tiny glass pieces litter the pavement, catching the orange light of the setting sun.

“Are you sure?” agent Peña asks, taking off his yellow aviator sunglasses and tucking them into the deep V of his shirt. “It looks like it’s been deserted for a while.”

You walk up to the entrance and peer inside. Peña’s question makes sense; there is barely anything left of the quaint little gift shop where you had bought some souvenirs for your family back home. 

“It’s been a few months, but… Yeah. I’m sure. This beaded curtain is still here, with some of the strings missing. I noticed that last time too.” You run your hand along it, the brown wooden beads rattling pleasantly.

“Hold up,” Peña says as he moves past you while removing his gun from his waistband. “Let me go first.”

You almost want to argue that there’s no need for that, that it’s not like you’re out here to track down narcos like he usually does, but you catch yourself before you can say anything. He’d just tell you this is Medellín, and you always have to be on your guard here. And he would be right. People had died in here before, after all. It's like they say: where there's smoke, there's fire.

You follow agent Peña through the curtain and look around the room. It’s almost unrecognizable from the last time you were here, the once vibrantly decorated store now a dusty collection of glass and debris. Bullet holes line the walls and ceiling and caused chunks of plaster to fall and cover most of the floor, including the colorful woven rug in the center of the room. A cold chill runs down your spine as you remember conversing briefly with the store owner, an old man who proudly told you about how his daughter just started working as a nurse, and how you reminded him of her. His calloused hands had neatly wrapped your purchase in some pretty paper. He had even tied a little red bow around it. 

You wonder where in the room his body had fallen.

While you are trying to keep your composure, agent Peña emerges from the storage space in the back and lowers his gun.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “you’d think a bomb went off in here. Looks like quite the fight.” He raises an eyebrow (you think because he hasn’t heard you swear before) before shrugging. 

“Looks to me like whoever did this wasn’t a very good shot. Too many stray bullet holes for only, what? One or two dead?” He tucks his gun back into his waistband, and you almost don’t want to admit you like how the motion pushes his chest forward, his muscles tightening. You certainly felt a certain way about your very handsome colleague, but you pushed those thoughts away when he was around -- your little schoolgirl crush was not just silly, but unprofessional too. As the child of an important diplomat, proper conduct was not just expected, it was required. 

“This was amateur shit,” he says, picking up one of the baskets near the cash register filled with colorful woven bracelets, “doesn’t mean we won’t find what we’re looking for, though.” He absentmindedly puts the basket back down.

“Check the back, I’ll look under the counter.”

After a few minutes of unsuccessful rummaging through various cardboard boxes and an overturned filing cabinet, you finally come across something in the small desk at the back of the room that piques your interest: a large, thin spiral notebook, tucked away in the back of one of the drawers. The cover is blank, but a quick look at the inside tells you that this is the sales ledger you were looking for. While you flick through the pages, Peña walks in.

“Any luck? I got nothing.” 

“Yeah, I think this is it,” you reply, holding up the book to show him, “it only goes back about eight months though, so I don’t know if -”

Before you can finish your sentence, agent Peña holds up his hand, which you take to mean he wants you to be quiet. A second later, you realize why: there are voices nearby, and it sounds like they’re entering the store. You can’t quite see the front door from where you’re standing, but it doesn't take long for the familiar sound of the beaded curtain to follow. 

“Come on, we just gotta check if the place is still empty,” you hear a man say in Spanish. 

Your eyes widen and you look over at Peña, your breath stuck in your throat. There’s no place to hide in here, the door is wide open and the only window in the room is barred. He knows it too, judging by how his head snaps around investigatively. Before you can do anything, his left hand grabs your shoulder and he pushes you backwards, up against the wall. 

You can’t tell if your heart skips a beat out of fear, or something else. 

Something like Javier Peña being closer to you than ever before. Something like him being close enough to smell him, all sweat and leather and cologne and the cigarette he finished smoking just after he got out of the car. Something like his hand on you, his thumb grazing the edge of your shirt’s neckline, almost touching your bare skin. 

“There’s no one here, Carlos, can we go now? The girls are waiting!”

“Yeah, hold on, let me just check the back.”

As soon as he hears that, Peña presses his whole body closer to yours. You see him slowly move his hand back to reach for his gun. No, no, no, no, this is bad. You have no doubt he could easily take them on, but if your dad found out agent Peña escalated a situation while you were there? There has to be a different way out of this, but you can’t think, you can barely breathe, your head swimming, overwhelmed by all of _him_ looming over you, and all you want to do is kiss him.

_Maybe all you have to do is kiss him._

_"Pena,"_ you whisper, trying to get his attention, but his eyes are locked in the direction of the door.

 _“Javier!”_

His name escapes like a hiss through your teeth and his head immediately snaps back to look directly into your eyes. You feel strange, uncomfortable as a result of the familiarity with which you suddenly addressed him. The uneasiness mixes with the fear and adrenaline in your gut, and it feels like this cocktail of emotions has set your insides on fire. 

Grabbing him by the collar of his dusty pink button-down shirt (like they do in the movies) you pull him down towards you and initiate what you assume is a passionate kiss, and you hope that he catches onto your plan sooner rather than later. 

Naturally, he hesitates for a moment, his fingers pressing into your shoulder like he needs to make sure you’re really there, all flesh and blood before him, like he isn’t imagining things. But soon the hand that was reaching for his sidearm moments ago pulls the hem of your t-shirt out of your jeans and yanks the fabric up as high as it will go. Meanwhile his soft lips are pressed against yours, and when he opens his mouth, you mimic his motions and move your hands to play with the hair on the nape of his neck. He tastes like smoke and tobacco, and every part of him is so _warm,_ like a raging fire, and you a helpless little moth drawn to his flame.

God, this was a stupid idea. It was stupid, yes, and you regretted it immediately, because there was no way anyone was going to be fooled by this little show. You're painfully aware that you don't look like the kind of person who would find themselves in an amorous tryst in a dingy abandoned storeroom, and Peña looks like, well, a cop. 

You pray that his big leather jacket covers up his gun. 

But the regret is softened a little bit by the fact that his big, warm hands are roughly palming at your chest over your bra, and he's now leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your jaw and throat. 

Fuck, maybe this is even worth getting shot over.

The small part of you that's still able to pay attention to your surroundings hears the crunching of glass under each step the stranger in the other room is taking. Clearly Peña hears it too, because he actually starts _moaning_ against your neck.

“Mm, _cariño_ , my dirty little girl,” he practically growls, his hot breath giving you goosebumps. Holy shit, did he just say that? If he’s trying to kill you before this stranger does, it’s working, since it feels like all the blood in your body is rushing away from your vital organs and towards your cheeks, and god, if it wasn’t getting awfully hot between your legs too.

In what you suspect is a last ditch effort to make the whole thing seem more convincing, he suddenly reaches down to grab the underside of your thigh and wrap your leg around his, and there’s no way to stop yourself from crying out with the way your crotch rubs against his jeans.

“What the fuck, hey!” 

You immediately miss Peña’s warmth against you as he pulls away to face the stranger. The other man looks puzzled as his eyes dart from Peña’s face to your breasts and the rest of your body. If you had any acting skills at all, this is where they’d come into play, but luckily for everyone involved, you are pretty genuinely embarrassed. You can imagine what you look like right now, cheeks flushed a deep pink, lips wet and parted, shirt hitched up above your bra, and pathetically out of breath.

“You’re not supposed to be here!”

Agent Peña holds up his hands, “Friend, friend, I’m sorry,” he replies in Spanish, and you can hear a wide smile in his voice, “I was just trying to show the lady a good time.”

The other man takes a step to the side to look around agent Peña’s tall frame, his movements skittish as he tries to spot anything you might be hiding from him.

“We’ll just go somewhere else, don’t worry, friend,” Peña continues, hands still in the air. “C’mon, baby.” He stretches one arm out to you, and you take his hand, hurriedly pulling your shirt back down to protect your bare skin from this stranger’s burning gaze.

As you’re being pulled along out of the store room, you notice the edge of Peña’s jacket is riding up ever so slightly as he walks.

You can see his gun.

“Hey!” the stranger calls from behind, and you briefly squeeze your eyes shut as a cold panic overtakes you. You fucked up, it was all your fault, you should’ve just let agent Peña do his job and now you’re both gonna get shot and killed and-

“This guy bothering you, lady?”

What?

You turn around, dumbfounded, and look at the stranger. The young man’s posture is odd, he’s pushing his shoulders back and curling his hands into fists at his side, like he’s ready to go toe to toe with Peña to protect your honor or some bullshit like that, the kind of masculine display that reminds you of those documentaries on Animal Planet you used to watch on the weekends as a kid. It takes every ounce of self control not to burst out laughing, the nerves that were knotted in your stomach now bubbling up through your chest, pushing out of you with an embarrassingly feminine giggle.

“No, not at all!” For good measure, you give Peña’s hand an obvious squeeze and hope you can now finally get the hell out of here. 

The other man nods curtly and doesn’t say anything more as you turn around, dragged along by your hand. His companion in the main part of the store doesn’t seem interested in you two at all, and you exit through the beaded curtain with no more problems.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You slam shut the door of the passenger side and bury your face in your hands with a groan. Don’t cry, just don’t cry, it’s just nerves, nothing happened and you’re safe inside the car with agent Peña.

Whom you just practically made out with. 

“Oh my god,” you whine into your hands, “I’m really sorry, I-I-” 

Your tongue feels heavy, making you trip over your words. You hear the jangling of metal as he puts the keys in the ignition, but he doesn’t start the car yet.

“I’m not that bad of a kisser, am I?”

He turns the key and the low vibrations of the engine bring you back down to earth somewhat - you sit up straight while weighing his question in your mind, and the lack of an immediate answer makes him furrow his brows ever so slightly -- he looks so sad it makes you want to kiss him again.

“Ouch, alright,” he says with a weak grin, while turning his head to check for traffic behind, before pulling away, “not the usual response I get.”

“No!” you blurt out, horrified that you offended him about something as _intimate_ as kissing, something he undeniably had more experience with than you.

“It was, I mean, you were good, I didn’t mean to say - I was just thinking,” you take a deep breath, “I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve let you handle it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, confirming your worst fear. He thought you fucked up. Well, maybe you could just go live in the jungle and support local wildlife by becoming a jaguar’s dinner, at least that would be less painful than having your heart yanked out like this. Your head meets the headrest of your seat with a soft _thump_ and you turn your face to the right, trying to focus on the colorful clothes on balcony washing lines, how the dusk ushers in a lively Colombian evening as people fill the streets to go home, find food, make conversation, while you struggle against the water in your eyes.

“What the hell made you think of that anyway?” he asks, a certain monotony in his voice that you want to pretend isn’t indignance. 

You chew your bottom lip, not sure if you should answer truthfully. But, you think, it might explain some things.

“I … saw it in a movie.” 

“You saw it in a _movie_?”

He laughs at that, because of course he does, and you feel blood rushing to your face again when you realize how naive you must look in his eyes, diplomat’s kid, with a job your dad arranged for you, lost in the cocaine capital of the world, learning about life from _movies._

But his laugh also makes something flutter inside you, the deep warmth of it, how it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, the kind of laugh you want to hear over and over again even if it was you he was laughing at. 

“Listen,” he starts, and you sit up straighter, wanting to prove your obedience, “it may have worked out this time, but don’t do something like that again.”

Despite agreeing with him, the disapproval hits hard, and you pick at a loose thread in your pants to distract yourself.

“Well, not without my permission.”

His permission? His permission to come up with your own plans, or his permission for you to kiss him? Your head spins with hope for the latter, and your cheeks burn at the thought.

He seems to have noticed you shifting in your seat, because he flashes an apologetic smile before he focuses on the road again.

“You hungry? Wanna grab some food?”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peña’s apartment is dark when you walk in, the street lights outside not doing much to illuminate your way. He flicks one of the two switches near the door, and the kitchen light turns on. 

"Living room bulb is out, sorry. Haven't had time to replace it yet."

"That's okay," you smile. It's cute to you somehow, the thought of a tired agent Peña in his poorly lit apartment. "Kinda cozy this way."

When your eyes adjust a bit more, you can take a better look around. His place is built similarly to yours, them both being government issued, and you recognize some of the awful, generic prints hanging on the walls. There’s no lack of brown and beige in the decor, the subdued earth tones dating the interior design by a decade or more. It’s fitting for him, though, you think, and the clutter of papers, clothes and (multiple) ashtrays evokes a kind of deep, dark warmth, the kind that radiates off of him, too. The heat that had seeped into your skin when he had kissed you and caressed you. Some of it still lingered there now, and you wished you could feel it fully again, to let Javier Peña breathe his fire into your lungs.

He offers you a beer while you plop down on his couch with a sigh.

“Do you mind if I take my shoes off?” you ask, “My feet have been killing me all day.”

“Be my guest,” he answers, walking over to the TV and pushing its power button.

“Here.” He hands the remote to you. “Watch whatever you like. I’ll get some forks.”

You flick through the channels, quickly skipping any that show the news. Both agent Peña and you are aware of the horrible things that go on in this country and you don’t want to put a damper on the evening. You also skip past a telenovela showing a loud, over-the-top sex scene between a rich woman and … her poolboy? Yeah, not a good choice either. 

The next channel makes you smile, though.

“Hey,” you say gleefully, “you got Animal Planet on here.” 

He lays down a couple of forks on the coffee table, next to the plastic bag with the take-out boxes.

“Yeah,” he answers before sitting down next to you, the brown leather creaking under his weight. “It’s the only channel that has anything decent at 3am.”

"Really? You're not a fan of those girls from the sex hotlines?"

He keeps a completely straight face and answers without skipping a beat.

"Only when I'm really drunk."

You laugh at that, and he flashes a cheeky grin that flutters its way straight into your heart. The dim yellow light of the side table lamp somehow enhances his attractiveness, his eyes almost black as coal, glittering in the low light. 

As you finish your food, the anxieties of the afternoon slowly burn away, replaced by the comfort of his couch and the low buzz of alcohol in your head.

"My dad warned me about you, you know,” you say, tucking your feet under your legs and relaxing into the cushions while taking a sip of beer from the bottle.

Peña leans over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. 

“Yeah? What’d he say?” 

You swallow before answering, “Well, that one time you came by to drop off that file, he saw you leave. Then he said to me,” you point your bottle at him, and lower your voice to imitate your dad’s, “‘That Peña’s a good agent. But he’s too loose with his women. You gotta be careful around a man like that.’”

Sighing, he shrugs lightly -- it seems like he knows his reputation around the embassy and gave up on trying to explain himself. He takes another sip of beer before putting the bottle down, and shifts his posture to face you. He tilts his head ever so slightly and lowers his gaze, bringing his hand over to brush your forearm with the back of his fingers, goosebumps forming on your skin in response to his touch.

“So is this being careful?” he asks softly.

You blink at him, and a small frown on your face probes him to clarify. 

“First you kiss me,” his hand finds your shoulder, the exact same place he found it earlier today, and his thumb brushes the same spot of skin next to your shirt’s neckline, “now you’re here at my apartment after dark.” His dark eyes pierce yours, unwavering.

“So, _conejita_ , is this being careful?”

“No,” you whisper, and you know it’s true. But you trust him, you trust him to be careful with you, that’s why you crossed that line and took the plunge.

His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and the tenderness of it makes you want to cry, but all you can do is sit there, breathlessly, until he rests his palm on your cheek.

“What would your old man say?” 

“I don’t care, agent Peña, I-”

_“Javi.”_

“Javi,” you repeat the nickname slowly, and you can’t help but feel like it was made for you to say, how easily it lays in your mouth.

“Javi... I don’t want to be careful anymore.”

“Okay,” he says quietly, looking at you so eagerly with those sad puppy dog eyes of his, “then let me kiss you again.”

You lean your face into his touch as a way to give him permission, and within an instant his mouth is on yours again, but this time it’s _real._ Without panic and without interruptions, you feel the soft tickle of his moustache as Javier Peña kisses you greedily, one hand in your hair, the other warm against your back, pulling you towards him and into his lap. He sighs into your mouth and a moan escapes your throat when he pushes his tongue against yours. 

Your hands cautiously explore him, his thick hair, the rough skin on his jaw, the V in his chest where he always keeps his sunglasses -- every part of you melts into his touch, like he melts in your mouth.

“I watched you,” he murmurs against your skin as he trails his mouth over your jaw, “at the embassy, I would watch you sometimes, carrying papers around, or-” one of his hands snakes up under your shirt, “talking to that idiot from the immigration office.”

“Who, David?”

As soon as you mention the idiot’s name, his grip on your waist tightens and you grin.

“I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”

“I’m not,” he brings his head up to kiss you again, “but it pissed me off that he got to talk to you more than I did.” 

Interrupting his kiss, you look at him, puzzled. “You could have. Talked to me, I mean.”

“Not the talking type, either,” he states, capturing your mouth again with a burning urgency. His hands roam from your sides up towards your chest, pawing at you over your bra. He gently pushes on your ribcage, palm over your pounding heart, until you’re lying on the couch with him on top of you. He pulls your shirt over your head and brushes his lips and tongue over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach, and every sliver of skin in between seems to be set on fire by his touch.

You shiver when he unclasps your bra (deftly, with one hand) and helps you out of your jeans, leaving you almost bare before him. Despite his warmth and gentleness, you suddenly feel fragile, vulnerable in your nakedness, but you try to shake it off, instead reaching for the buttons on Javi’s shirt, starting to undo them, when he catches your wrist in his hand.

“You’re trembling,” he says in an almost-whisper, his low voice tinged with worry.

You give him a reassuring smile, although you're not sure he buys it. 

“Be honest with me. First time?” 

"Sorry," you mumble, "I'm sorry, if that's not what you were expecting, I-"

He lets go of your wrist and hesitates for a moment, just long enough to make your heart grow cold. But then he continues where you left off, unbuttoning his shirt and dropping it to the floor. Your face feels hot at the sight of his chest, his toned body and muscular shoulders offset by a hint of softness in his belly, a trail of curly hairs disappearing into his jeans.

Taking your hands and placing them on his shoulders, he guides you to touch him. "Don't apologize, _conejita._ Just means I gotta change my tactic."

He doesn’t give you time to wonder what his usual tactic is or how he has to change it - he swiftly bends down and starts kissing the inside of your thigh, moving up and up as your heart beats faster and faster, until his lips brush over your underwear. He kisses you there, and you would almost call it chaste if not for the location, before he asks you, “Can I take these off?”

You nod, drawing in a deep breath and holding it while his fingers find the waistband and pull the garment off, some of your wetness sticking to the fabric, to your embarrassment. It’s like he knows how exposed you feel, because he presses himself closer to you, shielding you with his body while his mouth finds yours again. He runs his finger down your slit, coating himself in your slick, and starts drawing circles around your clit. Your nails claw at his back and you can’t help but mewl, whining helplessly against his mouth as his touch makes you see stars, your pleasure building up even more when he starts slowly moving his fingers in and out of your cunt with his thumb still on your clit.

All of a sudden, he stops.

You’re about to tell him no, continue, please, I’m alright -- but before you can say anything, he’s left another trail of open-mouthed kisses down your body until he arrives in between your legs.

And then he’s on you like a man starved.

His tongue, wet and hot, pushes against your cunt, licking and sucking in places you never even thought to touch yourself. Javi moans against your clit and you cry out, clasping your hand over your mouth a second too late.

And this bastard looks up at you from between your legs with his big brown eyes, and the sight of it is so _wicked_ it makes you moan again, closing your eyes to break away from his agonizing stare. 

His broad palm, still resting on your thigh, nudges one of your knees outward, spreading you open further, before he puts his fingers back inside you, much less gentle than before, and starts pumping them in and out at a merciless pace, faster and faster, while he’s still lapping at your clit. You reach out to run your fingers through his soft hair, not knowing if you want to push him away or pull him towards you, it’s so much, it’s too much --

His name repeatedly escapes your lips while he fingers you through your orgasm, holding down your thrashing legs with his face still pressed against your cunt. Your chest heaves, heavy with exertion, and you already miss his warmth when he comes up from between your legs.

“Javi,” you breathe, “that was, I mean, oh my god-”

“Good?” he asks, and with his face now in the light you can see your own wetness glistening on his chin and moustache.

“Yes, god,” you reply, crawling back into his lap and kissing him again. You taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with the cigarette smoke that always lingers on him, and it makes you want more of him, to entwine with him until he lingers on you, too. You run your fingernails over his chest, down into the curls above his belt and over the rough fabric of his pants, his erection straining against the heavy denim. The way his breathing hitches when your hand brushes over his hardness sparks something naughty deep inside of you, and all you want is to touch him more, to let him take you in any way he wants.

Your fingers, no longer trembling, pop open the button on his jeans and undo the zip. Javier doesn’t argue, instead he raises his hips with you still in his lap and takes his pants and briefs off in one skilled motion.

His cock is hard and darkened towards the leaking tip, and a strange sense of pride swells in your chest knowing you’re responsible. All of him is so pretty, you can’t help but think, and in this moment, in the low light of his living room, with the soft narration of a nature documentary in the background, in this moment, he is yours. You wrap your hand around his cock and gently spread the precum around with your thumb, drawing a soft groan from Javi’s throat. Keeping your eyes on his, you bring your thumb into your mouth to taste him, purring approvingly. 

He growls and tangles one hand in your hair, the other keeping a firm grip on your waist, before moving his head so his mouth is right next to your ear. 

“Dirty,” he whispers with a hint of a smile in his voice.

The word sends a jolt of electricity straight between your legs, making you buck your hips forward, looking for friction, when you unintentionally brush against his cock. Javier groans into your ear and pulls you against him, and you feel his cock twitch as he slightly ruts against your stomach. 

“You liked it, didn’t you? When I called you a dirty little girl?” 

You whine softly in response -- it’s true, you had liked it, it was overwhelming and exciting when he whispered things like that into your ear, and you suspected he had liked saying it, too.

“I’m yours, your -” the words are hard to say out loud, hot as sin, “- your dirty little girl.”

His hips buck against you hard. “Please, can I-” he starts, his voice catching in his throat, “I need-”

“Yes,” you reassure him, “please.”

You have to keep yourself from pulling away when the head of his cock slides over your sensitive clit, but you manage to steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders. He guides himself inside you and helps you down slowly as your cunt stretches to accommodate him -- when he’s all the way inside, it’s like you forget how to breathe, like he’s pushed all of you out and replaced it with all of him. Your first movements are small and jagged as you desperately try to feel his cock, but Javi starts a rhythm, thrusting from beneath you in long, slow strokes, with his arms wrapped around you to hold you up. Your face ends up buried in the crook of his neck where you can taste his sweat and hear his breathing, deep and heavy, like how he feels inside you. 

“So tight,” he groans, “fuck, I knew it -” 

You cry out in surprise when he picks up the pace, pounding into you and growling every time he does, until he suddenly flips you onto your back, making you yelp as the angle of his cock changes and rubs past the perfect spot inside you over and over again. You're close now and somehow he knows it, because his thumb finds your clit and starts drawing circles around it and there's nothing you can do but moan helplessly as he fucks into you at a ruthless pace. With every snap of his hips you get closer, an unbroken string of _Javi, Javi, Javi_ on your lips until you come, clenching around him. He growls and pulls out of you, one hand finding purchase next to your head on the couch, the other grabbing his cock. You watch in awe, your mouth lolled open, as he furiously jerks off -- this time your name is on his lips, but only once, before he comes in thick white ropes over your chest and belly.

His chest heaves in broad motions as he leans over to kiss you, before sitting back up and reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the side table. You can't help but smile when he lights one, at this unwavering bad habit of his, and he raises an eyebrow when he sees your expression.

"What is it?" he asks, his hand absentmindedly brushing over your ankle as you put your feet in his lap.

"Nothing," you answer, "I just decided you're not such a bad kisser after all."

The corners of his mouth turn up at that. "Oh, you _just_ decided that, huh?" and he kisses you again with the familiar taste of his cigarettes now fresh on his mouth. 

"Yeah, you're alright." You grin and he plants a kiss on the top of your head, before standing up to pull his jeans back on. 

"Wanna wash that off in the shower?" he asks, pointing at his drying cum on your chest. 

"Okay," you agree, taking the hand he offers to pull you up. You expect him to let go, but he doesn't -- he brings your hand up to his face, and places a kiss on your wrist, warm smoke trailing down your arm before dissipating. You guess it’s true: where there's smoke, there's fire. And in the case of Javier Peña, you'd gladly get burned.


End file.
